


Wheel of Westeros: Book Five Rise of Griff Part Five

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [29]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode: s07e03 The Queen's Justice, Episode: s08e01 Winterfell, F/M, Highgarden (ASoIaF), POV Stannis Baratheon, Pentos, Sorcerers, The Dreadfort (ASoIaF), The Night's Watch (ASoIaF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28097055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: Chapter One: Griff leads a dangerous rescue mission into Highgarden, and learns something interesting about Sam Tarly. Jon gets ready to battle an old enemy soon after becoming a father. Stannis seeks answers to questions about Daenerys.Chapter Two: Griff's army makes its way to Oldtown, but must stop at Horn Hill to right a terrible wrong, and Griff rethinks his stance on heretics. Jon receives hard news after a difficult mission. Daenerys invites Stannis to fight for her in a way he did not expect.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Val, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys, Stannis Baratheon & Daenerys Targaryen, Young Griff/Arianne Martell
Series: Wheel of Westeros [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I will have the second chapter sooner than usual...stay tuned.

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Five: Rise of Griff Part Five**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Griff

“Strength Ser Loras,” Griff whispered, as the silent darkness of the briar maze enveloped them. “Draw your strength from the Warrior, man, and let no one see your sorrow.”

It was Griff’s role as king to inspire his men, to keep them holy even in despair. He only hoped the dread and sorrow caught in his own throat wouldn’t come through with his words. He placed a hand on Loras’s shoulder, leaving his print in the blood that had splashed on the spaulder. Loras nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“In through the nose, out through the mouth…” Griff said the words Septa Lemore had repeated to him since he was a boy. Loras obeyed, drawing in a long breath of air and blowing it out. The young knight nodded, and they moved forward, but before long stopped again, held back by the sadness.

The briar maze of Highgarden had once been a botanic marvel, a labyrinth of thorny hedges maintained beautifully for hundreds of years and studded with roses of a hundred colors in the springtime. Now, however, it had grown out of control, and the briars were slowly going to seed. The hedges were now almost totally brown and drying out, and the floors of the maze were littered with dead leaves and little seedpods that stuck to everything. The burrs had already burrowed into the backs of Griff’s knees and under his arms where the cloth of his tunic peeked through the armor. Furthermore, if they went much deeper into the maze, they might be irretrievably lost. The only one who might be able to guide them out was Loras, which was why Griff needed him to keep his head about him while they pursued Euron’s warlocks. Yet the man couldn’t be blamed for being distraught, after what had happened to his home and what had likely been happening to his brother.

Griff had proceeded with the mission to rescue Highgarden, and in particular Willas Tyrell, once he learned that Euron had married Cersei Lannister and had taken up residence in the Red Keep with Queen Myrcella. After raiding the Reach in order to take not only its wealth, but many of its people for the purpose of using them as slaves, Euron had left Highgarden with an army of mute Ironborn and deep ones. The slaves from the Reach were meant to build a fleet to replace that which Victarion Greyjoy and their niece Asha had stolen, as well as a series of battle forts along the Stony Shore. Other citizens had been taken all the way to Essos, though it was unknown exactly where or what for. With the Storm Crows and the Dornish army defending Dragonstone, Griff took the Golden Company and a number of knights from the Stormlands and the Reach, and planned an ambush to take Highgarden back and rescue the unfortunate residents being forced into breeding with deep ones, the fish-like men who fought for Euron. Once the men had penetrated the gates, and while they fought at the perimeter, Griff went into the castle with Loras, Ser Rolly Duckfield, Samwell Tarly, Jon Connington and Hugh Beesbury to find and release the captives. They had killed several guards, and taken plenty of wounds in the process. An arrow to Duck’s hip had stopped bleeding, thankfully, though the knight noted that the drops left might have helped them find their way out of the maze, especially if Ser Loras couldn’t pull himself together.

Upon entering the castle, it became clear that Highgarden was no longer the place in which Loras had been raised. The gardens between its round walls that had been so verdant and beautiful seemed to have rotted and died, but then began growing again aggressively, choking the stone paths and blotting out any light that came in. Instead of brilliant greens, the stems, vines and leaves were a sickly brown or even black. The flowers of sunny yellow, pink, and bright blue had become oversized and misshapen, the colors turned to black, liver-colored, or a purple like clotted blood. Their once sweet fragrance had gone, and a stink of decay and corruption had replaced it. The animals had all been killed and left to rot in the outbuildings, with the exception of some horses, which had likely been stolen. The pillars within the once-gorgeous colonnades were covered with black mold and green, glistening slime that dripped down and made the stone floors treacherously slippery. The statues had all lost their marble heads, which had been replaced by the rotting heads of the castellan, septons and other staff who had once walked those halls. They were unrecognizable, but Loras surely had known them all. The pipers, harp-players and singers had long gone. There was no sound of music, joy or laughter – just the low moan of suffering emanating from every chamber, where Euron kept his breeding slaves chained to their filthy beds.

When they found Willas, he was so weak and dispirited that it was an effort for him to sit up. His bed was soiled as if the linens hadn’t been changed for weeks, and his beard was full and matted. He wore nothing but a threadbare, stained tunic – not even smallclothes to cover his manhood. A small cut at his collarbone had festered and wept green pus onto the red and swollen flesh around it. A trail of slime and scales led to the bed, which drew flies and smelled of dead fish. Worst of all, Willas’s bad leg was no longer just crippled – it was gone. Euron had removed it entirely. Willas still had his wits however, and understood quickly that he was to be rescued and go with Sam Tarly that he might reach freedom. They wrapped him in a filthy sheet for the time being, and Tarly was able to help him to safety. Griff ordered Sam to lead a group of men to get the captives free one by one, taking them to the abandoned great hall until the castle was secure. Other than the paralyzing despair that began to overtake Loras when he’d seen the state of his home and his brother, the mission had begun as a success. Things took a bad turn, however, when Euron’s warlocks appeared.

Before they could get even half of the captives into the hall, a ball of blue fire had inexplicably burst forth from thin air, and struck the middle of the floor. It seemed to explode, sending a number of Griff’s men and many of the captives flying to bits, though nothing actually caught fire. Suddenly, two men materialized from nothing, wearing purple-black robes. They both had bald heads and blue lips, but one was wider and had pockmarked orange skin while the other was long and lanky with pink skin like a baby rat. The orange one had rows of pale green pointed teeth and tuft of yellow hair sprouting from his ears, and the tall one had long, sharp nails at the end of his snaky fingers. Griff and Duck ran forward to attack the orange one, as he began to form another fireball between his hands. The men rained arrows upon the pink one, but he repelled them with a mere wave of his hand. Griff swing hard at the orange warlock, but as he did, the man disappeared and reappeared several feet away. The same happened when Beesbury made to stab the lanky pink one, only this time the warlock reappeared just behind Ser Hugh, and plunged a dagger with a wavy blade into the knight’s back. Griff thought at first he might recover, but the opening made by the dagger glowed with a blue light, and in an instant, Beesbury was filled with burning blue until he became a pile of ash. As the warlock watched his prey die, Griff took the opportunity and swung his sword with all his strength. The look of malicious satisfaction was still on the warlock’s face when his head fell to the floor.

The orange warlock bolted when his friend fell, and Griff ordered his party to follow him. As long as the warlock lived, they would not make it out of Highgarden with their lives and their freedom. They pursued him into the briar maze between the castle’s outer walls on the side of the Mander, which had probably been the path taken when they took slaves from the Reach. It was there that despair had taken over Loras, stopping him in his tracks. Soon they were all dragging themselves along, overwhelmed with sudden fatigue and sadness. At one point, Connington sat down on the ground with his back against a thorny stalk. Griff’s mind went immediately to Arianne, whom he’d left angry with him, and he too became sick with regret and anxiety.

Arianne’s brother Trystane had fallen to the curse of the vampyr, and now both Tyene and Obara Sand had become ill. Elia Sand had found and killed Mortimer Boggs with a special wooden lance at last, but too late to stop the spread. They had to kill Trystane, too, he had tried to explain to his queen – it couldn’t be helped. But she didn’t understand, and she didn’t understand why he was choosing to rescue the Reach, instead of marching on King’s Landing where the Lannister queen was still enjoying the fruits of her family’s loss. _The Lannisters killed your mother and sister…my aunt and cousin, and here you go in aid of their allies_ , she had cried. Griff tried to explain to her that the Tyrells were _his_ allies now, and hers. With Euron at King’s Landing, and Daenerys hesitant to leave Essos, it made more sense to take back the Reach – to show the people of the Reach that he was indeed their king. Otherwise, they might not take kindly to him allowing the Northmen to move south for the winter. Arianne also didn’t appreciate that Griff insisted on keeping friendly relations with the North, even when they seemed to be plotting against the realm. She was most furious that he still planned to marry Dany. After they had made love the day he left, she had sobbed into her pillow and wouldn’t be comforted. _Please my love, don’t weep in our bed. Don’t let me go to what may be my death with your anger!_ She hadn’t answered him, and now her sorrowful and bitter face was all Griff could see as they slowed to a stop in the maze.

“It’s hopeless…it’s over…we’ve lost,” Duck was saying. Griff couldn’t believe what was happening. Duck was ever the spirit of bravery and zeal in battle, always a positive force, and now he had given up? It was then that Griff realized. The warlock was using the maze against them. His magic had infected it in order to weaken them.

“It’s dark magic,” Griff said. “The warlock is penetrating our minds and our spirits, don’t you see? Don’t give in – fight it!”

“It’s no use, my king. We can’t defeat this foe…why bother?” Connington said.

Suddenly, he heard the laughter of the warlock, who stood several yards away. He lifted his orangey-yellow arms into the air, and suddenly the briars of the maze came alive and began to grow around the legs of Griff and the men. If they didn’t move, it would strangle them.

“Goodbye my prince,” Duck said dejectedly. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

“Come on, Connington. Duck,” Griff said. “You’re letting the spell get to you. Get up. You’ve got to try. _You’ve got to care! Come on_!”[1]

Connington hadn’t been the same since he’d come back from Oldtown. Cured, yes, but not the same. Griff wondered if he was still dying, and they just didn’t know it. Perhaps he would go mad, and die in pain. _No! I can’t let it overtake me._ Griff fought the thoughts that poured into his mind. He closed his eyes and prayed to the Warrior for strength and the Crone for wisdom. _Please…_ but suddenly he was picturing his mother being raped and his sister run through again and again. Then the image of his mother became Arianne, and his big sister Rhaenys became Dany. Griff felt the vines tighten around his thighs, thorns penetrating the open parts of his armor and piercing his flesh.

All of a sudden, a song filled the air. It was a harmony of three voices, loud, ringing and melodious. Together they sang a sweet, hopeful verse that made Griff’s heart beat stronger.

_Awaiting a word, gasping at glimpses_

_A gentle true spirit he runs_

_Wishing he could fly... **[2]**_

All at once, Connington rose from where he had slunk down, and Loras and Duck began to thrash at the vines that wound around them. Griff flung the twisting stalks from him quickly and drew his sword. The warlock was ready, however, and lifted his hands again. This time, they became encircled by threads of blue lightning, and he smiled a green-toothed grin derisively at their impotent swords. Griff didn’t care. If he had to die ridding the world of this evil, so be it.

Just then, from a corridor in the maze to the warlock’s right appeared Samwell Tarly, who ran at full speed to stand in front of Griff and the three knights. Before anyone could ask what in the hell he was doing, Sam took a wide stance and pointed a finger at the warlock. The song continued sweetly, growing louder when Sam came near.

“Paget Geng! Be gone,” the young maester called out. “The voices of the Three Singers have awakened. Your power is dwindling. Leave this place or die.”

Duck and Griff looked at each other, amazed. The Three Singers, Griff knew, was what they called the three massive weirwood trees that had grown together in the Highgarden godswood. What he didn’t know, was from where Samwell Tarly, who was usually a soft-spoken and bashful man, had gotten this strange courage. He had only taken Tarly along because he didn’t wish to leave him at Dragonstone with Bran Stark, still their hostage at the castle. He had good reason to think Bran was in on some plot hatched by his family, and that Tarly was in cahoots with them. He was glad to have him there with his knowledge of medicine, given the state of the unfortunate captives they rescued, but this wasn’t the aid he’d expected from him.

“Ha!” Paget Geng said. “Who art thou that dares to challenge my power!”

“I am Samwell Tarly of the Wall, and I come in the name of the Old Gods.”

“The Old Gods are dead, fool, and thee as well!”

Geng sent forth a stream of lightning, but before it reached him, Tarly bent low and waved his arms to his left, as if picking up an invisible boulder and casting it aside. The lightning stopped as if against an unseen wall, pulsed, and sent a shockwave back to Geng, knocking him down. He cursed Tarly with a gurgling howl, and began to create a fireball between his hands as they had seen him do in the hall. The ball that formed seemed dimmer and weaker, however, and before it could fully form, Tarly had managed to create two smaller fireballs that hovered above the palm of each hand. The balls were a warm yellow rather than blue, and Griff could feel the heat of them from where he stood. Geng let out a scream and hurled the fireball at Tarly, who met it with his own. They exploded together with a blast that made the earth move beneath Griff’s feet. Then with a mighty thrust, Tarly hurled the other fireball, which had grown three times in size as the song of the trees grew louder, directly at Geng. It struck the warlock with a fiery burst, burning him from the middle outward. Geng let out a long screech of pain and terror, and then he was gone. All that remained was a puff of purple smoke.

Griff and Duck looked at each other again, speechless. Then they looked at Tarly, who was bent over, panting to catch his breath. At last, he stood upright, wiping his brow before he caught the four men staring at him. He held up his hands, wearing the more familiar compliant and harmless look they were used to, and said, “There is…a perfectly sound explanation for everything you’ve just seen here.”

Chapter 2: Chieftain of the Order of Bastards

Val slept sitting up, propped up against of pile of down pillows, a giant pillow stuffed with wool on her lap. Jon’s daughter lay snuggled upon the pillow, sucking peacefully at one exposed breast as her mother dozed. He watched them for a few moments, his new family, and wondered silently if this was what his father had felt when he glimpsed Lady Catelyn nursing Robb – this feeling of joyful warmth almost like drunkenness. The first time he had held the baby, after she had been wiped clean and Val had been tended to by Morna and the other women, he’d gotten the feeling that he could let his skin grow right into her, that he could meld with that little bundle and be one with her forever. Her birth had come suddenly, without much time to prepare, and Val had bled a great deal. There was a brief, dark time when it was thought she might die of the birth, as her sister had died of Mance Rayder’s son. However, Val fought and lived. She immediately turned away the wet nurse Mabel who came with baby Monster, insisting on nursing their daughter herself. _I can’t stand seeing her in another woman’s arms_ , Val had told Jon[3]. She had insisted they wait to name her, but in his head, Jon had already given her a name. The morning before she was born, he dreamed of the lady spirit he had seen in the swamp at Moat Cailin. She was baking biscuits in the walking cottage as before, and talked of a friend who had taught her magic. _Martha_.

He stepped closer to rest his hand gently on the baby’s head, which was covered by a tiny nightcap Alys Karstark had knitted. She was wrapped in beaver fur lined in lambskin, though she had been delivered into one of Jon’s new banners instead of a blanket or fur. A blinding blizzard had hit when Val went into her labor, and the banner was more readily available. Alys had sewn that up as well.

It was decided that Jon could no longer fly the Stark banner, now that Sansa was Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North, and he wasn’t a Stark after all. Jon had thought a great deal about why Robb hadn’t legitimized him in his will, and realized with some elation and a rush of love for his brother that Robb left that out because he simply hadn’t thought of it. In the moment of drawing up that scroll, not long before he was killed, Robb had merely thought of him as a brother and not a bastard. He _was_ a bastard, though, and therefore had no house, but he needed a banner. _You need to fly something when you ride out,_ young Devan Seaworth had said. He told Jon how his father Davos had come up with his own banner: a ship with an onion on its sails – in defiance of the snobby lords who called him the “Onion Knight,” since he’d previously been a smuggler of foodstuffs. In the end, they drew up a wholly different type of banner. It was wider and shorter than the typical Westerosi house’s, and instead of a grey direwolf on a white field, it bore a white direwolf on a black field. From its neck grew white roots that tangled downward before stopping short, and it had a single red weirwood leaf for an eye. Jon had no house and never would – this banner signified an _order_ : the Order of Bastards.

He leaned over to kiss Val’s sleeping lips, and her eyes fluttered open.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Jon said quietly.

“You’re still here, then,” Val said, rolling her eyes.

“We ride at dawn. I just wanted to look in on you and the baby before I left.”

Sansa had sent a raven warning them of a plot by Cregan Karstark to kidnap Alys and murder Jon and his wife before retaking the Karhold from Harrion Karstark, the rightful heir. Cregan had slipped the black brothers at Castle Black and had now allied with a small battalion of men at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Together they were called the Proud Men, a stupidly uncreative name, and they believed themselves to be the true “Watchers on the Wall,” standing for what they believed the Night’s Watch was supposed to be. That meant they despised the Freefolk, and considered them a greater threat than the Others and their wights. According to Sansa, they had vowed to eliminate every last Wildling that remained – that way they could neither be turned into wights, nor encroach upon the lands of civilized Westerosi folk. That Jon had married Cregan’s own niece to the Magnar of Thenn made him reviled among them, even though the Magnar had died soon after Alys’s wedding. They would hunt Jon down, kill Val and rape her corpse in front of him, then fill him with holes and fuck the holes before dismembering him and sending his body parts to each of the seven kingdoms, lest he try to come back as he did before. Sansa hadn’t written anything about how she had gotten this information – just that she had awarded Hother Umber for confessing his involvement with a quick death and the promise that Mors Umber would be pardoned, his wife and sons to be kept as hostages in Winterfell.

“I suppose it’s too late to convince you to go west instead,” Val said, sighing and cuddling Martha closer. “You still could, you know.”

“My enemies aren’t to the west – they are to the north.”

Val had turned up her nose at Cregan Karstark’s threat, believing any attempt to kill and rape her would be easily dealt with, if not by the two giants that guarded her at night, then by Jon’s armies who loved her almost as much as they loved him. Since Sansa had taken the North from him, Val had developed the belief that Jon should vie for all the Northern lands west of the Kings Road and down to where the Green Fork divided north of the Twins. _It is by the blood of your armies that the people of those lands aren’t thralls building ships for a sorcerer_ , Val had told him, reminding him of how he had driven back Euron Greyjoy’s army as they attempted to invade the Rills via Blazewater Bay. Jon made the mistake of suggesting he was quite happy for Sansa’s knights of the Vale and the Riverlands to take up that effort. Val called him a craven – the most hateful thing she’d ever said to him, and painful childbirth and its aftermath had made her no less prickly.

“Well go on then,” Val said, inhaling the scent their daughter’s little head as she fed. “While you and Satin are playing with yourselves together, my men and I will be taking the Wolfswood for your family.”

“Very funny,” Jon said. Val’s accusations regarding his castellan Satin no longer needled him as they once did. It was more amusing than upsetting. The Crown had spread rumors that the “Oldtown Whore,” Satin Flowers, was his advisor during the day and his lover at night. That was amusing too, since Satin really did neither of those things, and in fact one of his duties was to keep the men chaste, especially when they camped during fighting.

“You think I’m making a jape?” Val said. “Once we take over the forest, the Barrowlands will be easy picking since most of its people have gone to the Neck. Isn’t that right my little pumpkin? _We are going to rename Barrowton after a certain little pumpkin. Yes we are!”_

Martha had finished eating, and now Val whispered in her little ear as she placed her over her shoulder and began to burp her. This was Val’s new method of expressing her anger at Jon. _Your papa was once a king, yes he was, but now he’s a nursemaid – isn’t it sad?_ She had yet to forgive him for giving Winterfell over to Sansa. _Papa loves his family so much, yes he does – what’s that? We’d rather he take what he has a right to? Oh pumpkin I agree!_ Morna told Jon that women often acted out of character after having a baby, so Jon attributed this avalanche of resentment to that. Val also hated the Dreadfort, he knew, and he couldn’t blame her much for it. It was built on one of the loveliest waterways in the North, but the Boltons had managed to make their castle so dreary, dark and lifeless it could suck the spirit out of a person.

“Even if you really thought to do something so foolish, I know you aren’t strong enough yet,” Jon said. “And if you were fully recovered, would you leave our child to go get buried in snow? You know what sorts of storms come off the Bay of Ice.”

“Very well, husband. I shall obey.” She smiled wryly at Jon in a way that suggested she did not intend to obey.

“I love you Val.”

“Good,” she said. “Perhaps someday soon you’ll prove it.”

Chapter 3: Stannis

It was evening, and Stannis was taking advantage of the post-supper quiet to write in his commander’s log. The noise of reveling patrons and sultry music from above would not begin until well past sundown. The following day, Queen Daenerys Targaryen had summoned him to appear in a courtyard of Illyrio’s manse that he’d had yet to enter. She bid him come wearing full armor, including his helm, and cautioned that only Ser Davos Seaworth could accompany him. In his explorations of the place, Davos had only glimpsed a corner of the southwest courtyard through an upper window, in which he made out what appeared to be the giant imprint of a dragon’s toenail. Stannis agreed to meet the queen as she asked, but considered it may be the last time he saw the light of day.

_Pentos, the second equinox, 300 A.C._

_It has been approximately one month since we arrived in the hospitality of Daenerys Targaryen. I and my men have been trained extensively in Eastern weaponry by the lords Grey Worm of the Unsullied and Venny of the Fiery Hand. Both men are stern and effective teachers in bowstaff and spear fighting, as well as the operation of the bolt thrower that may be used to slay elephants if necessary. That she chose such men as her captains does the queen credit. Worm in particular is a man of startling bravery, cold cunning, and remarkable endurance, despite being a eunuch. His men obey him devotedly, even as has denied them continued use of the milk of the poppy, to which their uncanny resistance to pain might formerly be attributed._

_We returned six days ago from hunting in the Forest of Qohor for elk, deer and boar, as the queen opened a contest throughout the region in thanks to the Lord of Light for delivering her people from the plague. The men who brought in the three finest beasts for feasting were to be rewarded ten thousand gold dragons each, and the meat of the rest was to be donated to the peasants of the area. Together with Ser Davos, and captains Massey, Horpe, Farring Penny and Suggs, I brought in a massive boar and gained the award. The queen is a woman of her word, tis true. The enormous map that gives its carrier the power to transport themselves to any number of locations from points within the Caves of Norvos is the very marvel she described. Davos and I have toured the better parts of Essos using it. It took several days to get to the caves, but returning to the city took but the blink of an eye._

_I and Selyse are housed, much to my wife’s disdain, in a decadently appointed brothel called The High Tower, run by Lady Lynesse Ormollen, formerly of the Hightowers of Oldtown. However, Queen Daenerys has invited us to dine with her in the manse of Illyrio Mopatis on numerous occasions, and those of our men who have remained after the sickness subsided are camped with hers. Our daughter Shireen remains housed in the manse along with the queen’s other hostages._

When Stannis and Selyse had first arrived at the manse, it had been the queen herself who brought their daughter forward, three weeks after she had taken Shireen to hostage just as she was about to be sacrificed to Rh’llor. She emerged from the curtain at the end of the audience chamber, Shireen before her, her bejeweled hands covering the girl’s eyes as she pawed the air in front of her. _Right…other right. Stop. Now left…your_ other _left…_ When the queen lifted her hands from their daughter’s face, Shireen squealed with delight and ran into her mother’s arms. Selyse wept, not only at the joy of seeing her daughter alive, Stannis realized, but at how beautiful the girl looked. The queen’s seamstress had dressed her in a long, rustling gown of shimmering grey silk embroidered with gold thread and embellished with brass. She wore a headdress not unlike what the queen wore, with antlers wrought in gold and embedded with amber and tiger’s eye. Her hair was wound in two thick braids one on each side of her head, which made her ears look distinctly smaller. If one glanced at the side of her face not affected by greyscale, one could have called her the beginnings of a beauty.

_My observations regarding the Dragon Queen have yielded little answer to my questions about her role in the prophecy. Whether she is the prince(ss) who was promised, lightbringer itself, or a reincarnation of Azor Ahai’s noble wife Nissa Nissa, from whom the sacred sword drew its power and benevolence, is still not clear. Though her gowns tend toward indecency, she is not the wanton whore she is rumored to be. She shares her bed with no one other than the young Naathi girl who advises her. Though her betrothal to Young Griff is in question, she holds out hope for the union, even after the prince has wed Arianne of Dorne and is like to get a child on her. She has not taken the wealth willed to her by Mopatis and instead sets it aside to gain interest in a bank she built that Griff might inherit all. She allows the imp Tyrion Lannister to operate this institution, incredibly enough. Her generosity and openness seems a fault at times, but I cannot help but think there is more behind it._

At one of their suppers, Daenerys had hosted the priestess Kinvara of Braavos, who brought with her the Lady Yaya – a dark-skinned red priestess of the Summer Isles with a brightly colored bird ever perched upon her shoulder. Yaya proposed traveling to the North of Westeros, at least until Selyse became comfortable with departing from Melisandre. Melisandre insisted she must go and advise Jon Snow, but did not object to Yaya accompanying her, since Jon Snow and his sister Sansa Stark had split the kingdom. Stannis did not know what to think of Lady Stark’s rather disingenuous betrayal of her bastard brother, but it did not surprise him that Snow had acquiesced. When asked, Stannis described the Stark siblings as well as he could. Sansa was a famous beauty and well-bred, but not given to religion since her family’s downfall. Jon Snow was favored by the Old Gods, but if he could be made to see the light, would no doubt be a great asset to Rh’llor. Kinvara had asked Stannis then about Shireen, and whether she was still waiting to be sacrificed. He did not need to answer.

“There will be no burning of Shireen Baratheon,” Daenerys had said firmly. “She will henceforth remain in my custody. Alive.”

Kinvara was a beautiful woman, though not as lovely as Melisandre. She had auburn hair and a full bosom that heaved above her red silk bodice. Daenerys however had made a more imposing figure that evening. She wore a headdress that resembled the crown of a dragon, and her scarlet gown was decked all over with jewels carved in fang-like shapes. The hem and neckline were trimmed with gold metalwork that hinted of armor.

“Of course, most merciful queen,” Kinvara said, averting her eyes from the queen and training them upon Stannis. “However, I cannot help but wonder whether a sacrifice might be needed of equal value. The Lord may not take kindly to the deficit. One must ask whether mere war prisoners will be enough? Such a sacrifice does seem lacking.”

The queen, whose eyes were painted to look like green flames, turned then to the red priestess. “Not enough of a sacrifice? Is that what I heard you say, little miss voice of Rh’llor?”

Daenerys walked over the where Kinvara stood, now looking rather sheepish – something Stannis hadn’t thought he would ever see in a red witch. “Just how do you think my people and I came to be here? Do you think it’s all just been a lovely game of Cyvasse on the veranda?[4] The Dothraki who guard these walls left Vaes Dothrak, the place that cradled them, and sailed the poison water against all inclination, and many of them have died for it. My Unsullied now lay groaning in their beds, opening the door to pain they have never experienced, all so they can face death at the hands of my enemies with clear eyes. I have burned the bodies of so many of my children, I can taste their ashes in my teeth at night. If the Lord doesn’t find my sacrifice satisfactory, then perhaps he should find his hero elsewhere.”

She had looked directly at Stannis when she said those final words.

“My queen…if I have offended you, then I am mistaken,” Kinvara had said. “Let me make one thing clear…you _are_ the chosen of the Lord of Light… _whether you believe so or not_.”

_There seems to be two of Queen Daenerys in all things. She is a great beauty supposedly, but usually hides her beauty under adornments made to make her appear bigger, crueler, monstrous. At our suppers, I’ve heard her true voice, which is gentle, but at audience one will find it lower and somber. I can’t help but call it duplicity, and question whether I can trust a woman who seems now one thing, and now another. There are secret goings-on in certain areas of the manse that I cannot explain. Ser Davos, for instance, reports that a large shipment of leather was delivered and tanners were employed recently, and clandestinely. Her soldiers wear leather armor, as one can see clearly, so why the secrecy? The strange powder intoxicant called “ash” that has become so popular in Essos is certainly connected to the queen’s revenue streams, but from whence did it come? My questions about its distribution have been met with little but evasion and equivocation._

Stannis had tried the powder only once, much to the disapproval of Selyse. He took only a very little to start, as the taste was foul, and he wasn’t sure of the effects. Salladhor Saan had joined them that evening in the queen’s manse for a lavish supper of braised beef loin, shark fin soup, smoked fish on rye biscuits, goat cheese and kidney bean salad soaked in oil and vinegar, pickled beets, and a dessert of roasted pears and sweet cream. Saan had not been subtle in his flirtation with the young queen, and Daenerys had laughed uproariously at his idiotic jokes and laid her jeweled claws gently upon his beard – but she was only interested in how the traffic of ash was profiting. Soon, she told him, every slave in the Free Cities would be a free man looking for good pay. _Lord Tyrion and I have become bankers against our will_ , she had said, sounding as if she were speaking of an arranged marriage. _Tell me our patrons will not be disappointed._ She did not mention that the investment was made with Griff’s inheritance.

The ash took no effect, and Stannis had assumed the heavy supper had diminished the potency. He took another dose, doubling the amount, and in short order had experienced a light, pleasant feeling that induced him to take a stroll through the open areas of the manse. Its massive library had never held any particular fascination for him, but he found himself wandering into it to escape the noise of the queen’s raucous musicians. Absently perusing what seemed like miles of tomes, the titles just legible upon the many-colored spines, he almost didn’t see the specter that had suddenly appeared in front of him. A tall, silver apparition floated some inches above the floor. It had no feet, but its hands held open a book on which it seemed to be concentrating. His heart pounding, Stannis had stared for a few minutes before determining that the apparition was in fact the ghost of prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Stannis hadn’t seen the prince in life but from a distance, however the specter had his great mane of silver hair, the dark armor bearing the three-headed dragon, and the wide holes in the earlobes in which the prince was known to have hung baubles. Stannis uttered the prince’s name to confirm, and the figure met him by holding a finger over its lips and shushing him. _Nonsense,_ Stannis had thought, but when he continued walking, as if to traverse right through the apparition, it suddenly reached out for him. Rheagar’s face broke into a gape-mouthed roar as he opened his jaws to devour Stannis, his hands become scaly claws that reached forth to tear him to pieces.[5] Stannis went to scream, and woke up in his bed in The High Tower. He vowed never to touch the ash again.

_Though I am suspicious of her tendency toward disguise, I have observed that Daenerys is nothing if not capable…perhaps more so that her self-proclaimed nephew. She is shrewd in making resolutions: generous in negotiations when it suits, brutal when it suits, merciful when it suits. Her dragons are humungous and terrible, but are they truly in her command, or is she in theirs? She names them her children. She calls the hostages her children, and treats them as such, perhaps unwisely. She calls her subjects her children – even those who despise her, and there are many of those. Defeating her dragons would be improbable. Defeating the dragons and her armies both would be impossible. Yet the slavers have their armies as well, and they close in on Volantis as I write this entry. It is for this reason that she does not strike King’s Landing._

A knock at the door marked a good time to put the log aside. Stannis blew lightly on the ink before going to the door, where he met a burly young man of low rank among the queen’s Dothraki, clutching a large bundle in his arms. He presented the very heavy bundle as a gift from Daenerys, bowed, and departed. Stannis closed the door behind him and brought the gift inside. He unwrapped a soft deerskin covering to find a cuirass of black leather polished shiny and embossed with a stag made of beads of yellow jasper. There was also a breastplate featuring the burning heart of Rh’llor in garnet and bloodstone. Finally, there lay at the bottom a new shield that shone in the light of the sconces. Upon it, the stag of Baratheon danced upon a heart of flame, the steel flashing and glimmering in a way that matched the sword he’d named Lightbringer.

[1] Petersen, Wolfgang. _The NeverEnding Story_ , Constantin Film, 1984.

[2] Crosby, Stills & Nash, “Helplessly Hoping,” _Crosby Stills & Nash_, Atlantic, 1969.

[3] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 3: “The Queen’s Justice,” HBO, 2017.

[4] Lehmann, Michael. _Heathers_ , New World Pictures, 1989.

[5] Reitman, Ivan. _Ghostbusters_ , Columbia, 1984.


	2. Continued

Chapter 4: Griff

Horn Hill was nestled in the lushly forested foothills of the Red Mountains, now bathed in a rainbow of orange, crimson, crisp emerald and bright yellow with streaks of blue spruces here and there. Below it, a huge pond, its surface sparkling when the sun set in the west, provided water for deer, elk, moose and bear traveling south from all areas of the Reach. To the north, where the Mander flowed, giving life and richness to the soil, a number of small farms dotted the landscape, formerly vassals to House Tarly. Most now sat empty, as the families who sowed the grain and vegetables once produced there had fled up the Roseroad toward Kings Landing or been taken as thralls by Euron Greyjoy’s forces. It was within one of these defunct farms, in an empty grain silo, where they found Samwell Tarly’s mother and sisters.

An army of Ironborn soldiers had occupied the castle, and had been overseeing the steady deforestation of the foothills in aid of building Euron’s ships and forts. They had managed to clear a large swathe of trees, leaving a barren and ugly scar where once old and majestic oak and maple had grown. The wildlife had fled further into the mountains or to the farmhouses, where they took shelter and decimated whatever food remained. Many animals had been slaughtered for their pelts and skins to supply the armies occupying the Stony Shore. What had once been a hunter’s paradise was not so much as before. Some of the newly enslaved lived in their own cottages – those who could chop wood and hew it and those who could skin and trim fur. One farmer had risked his life to hide and feed his lord’s wife and two daughters, though he couldn’t see after them much other than that. Other enslaved vassals were housed in the castle where they served food, drink, and other services for the occupying army. Talla Tarly, Randyll Tarly’s eldest girl, was one of these, as she sacrificed herself that her mother Melessa and the younger girls could make their way to hiding. She had lost her maidenhood and her tongue in the bargain.

Now they were home and safe, but that was little consolation. Melessa Florent Tarly had lost so much flesh that her tattered gown hung on her like a sheet, and her once thick brown hair was thin and brittle. The girls Harmony and Chyann were skittish and sullen, the opposite of what one might hope and expect for young ladies of the Reach. Talla had survived well, and had picked up a kind of language made up of hand gestures to communicate, but the thought of what she had no doubt suffered filled Griff with a heavy, leaden guilt that sat in his gut so that he could scarcely eat his supper, even once they had routed and defeated Euron’s occupying soldiers. Other castles in the Reach had managed to ward off the invasion, but since Griff had executed Lord Tarly and his son Dickon, Horn Hill never had a chance. Now Horn Hill was freed and back in Tarly hands, and many farmers could return to their homes or what was left of them, but the weight of what they had suffered was pulling Griff down from the elation of victory. He refused milk of the poppy as Sam tended to his battle wounds, feeling he deserved the pain.

“When I am on the Iron Throne,” Griff said as they sat to a meager supper of roasted game hens and mashed potatoes, “I will make this right. I will replant the trees and restock the game. The Reach will be what it was, I promise.”

Sam’s family dined with him along with Connington, Harry Strickland, Duck, Lord Bulwer, and Ser Glendon Flowers. Flowers, a bastard of House Ball, and Bulwer had leant their support to Griff along with a number of other houses of the Reach. Ser Loras remained at Highgarden with his brother until Willas was well enough to make the trip to Dragonstone, where Griff had vowed to shelter him until Highgarden was safe for good. The next move was to take back Brightwater Keep, and then it was on to Oldtown. If they were victorious, Griff would have the Reach and with that, he could direct its wealth and supplies to Dragonstone instead of King’s Landing and perhaps force Myrcella to give up the capital. Euron and Cersei were spreading themselves thin in taking on the North, the Reach and the Westerlands. However, Griff felt only a dragon could guarantee the city’s surrender.

“When we take it back, Brightwater Keep will again be yours, Lady Melessa, and Horn Hill will belong to Talla,” Griff continued. “In the meantime, I invite you to join my court at Dragonstone…and at the Red Keep, once I’ve gained the crown. I only wish it was near enough to undo the evil that had befallen you…for which I am responsible, to my shame.”

“That is most generous, your grace,” Lady Melessa pronounced stiffly. She looked almost a lady again, dressed in a musty but still serviceable gown of blue velvet trimmed with tufts of fox fur. “Pray, however, have you or your men news of my sister Selyse? I hope Lord Stannis surrendered peacefully?”

_You mean you hope I didn’t chop off your sister’s head as I did your son and husband._ Griff became red, as the news might be good or bad depending on one’s point of view. “It seems your sister has traveled across the Narrow Sea with Lord Stannis to make acquaintance with my aunt Queen Daenerys…” Melessa’s face became very white, and Lady Talla gasped. “I’m sure they will be quite safe if that’s the case. My aunt is loyal to me.”

“For now…” Lady Melessa blurted. Griff did not reprimand her…how could he?

A rather troubling correspondence had arrived before they departed from Dragonstone to rescue the Reach. Frank Flowers had reported via messenger that Stannis had sailed from the North to Pentos in hopes of aiding Dany in her war abroad. The only consolation was that Stannis was already wed, and so couldn’t offer his hand as well. Griff did not like being shown up by another possible heir to the Iron Throne…illegitimate as he might be as the brother of a mere usurper. House Florent above all had not officially bent the knee to Griff, which was why retaking the Reach was so important. Now Stannis had done what Griff had failed to do, and the prince felt his grip on Dany’s dragons slipping even further.

For now, he was in his aunt’s good graces. Ilyrio Mopatis had died, and left them an inheritance, which Dany had agreed to give over to Griff, since she had broken their betrothal in secretly marrying Victarion. However, Griff hadn’t seen a penny of it. Instead, Dany had planted it in a bank she had hidden somewhere near old Valyria. _To grow for you, my love, that you may need of nothing when we come into our crown._ Griff supposed it would be pointless to write to her and say he needed the money now, not later. He needed a dragon now, not later, but he wasn’t the one traveling across the sea to help her end slavery – Lord Stannis was. He hadn’t even gone to pay respects to Ilyrio, who had housed and protected him as a toddler. He hardly remembered the man, but still, he couldn’t help but wish he might pay his respects. _When I am on the throne, I will make a memorial to him_ , he told himself.

That hadn’t been the only hard news either, as the letter penned by Pykewood Peake had indicated. Frank Flowers insisted that the White Walkers and their army of wights was absolutely, positively real, and working on making their way past the Wall. _Ser Flowers seems quite sincere in his belief_ , Peake had written. _The black bastard’s wall of fire will hold them for a time, but he suggests your grace keep some dragonglass on hand, and get hold of as much fire as possible._ It confirmed what Bran Stark and Sam had been saying for months, but Griff was still hesitant to take them at their word. However, after what Sam had done at the Briar Maze, Griff could see it was time to have a serious conversation about this threat that seemed to loom over everything Griff wanted to do.

After supper, Griff summoned the young maester to his temporary chambers for a private audience, Duck and Connington being the only others in attendance. Samwell had regained his deferent posture, but displayed less hand-wringing and compulsive bowing than before he had single-handedly saved their skins with magic. On their way out of Highgarden, he had explained very tersely that he had learned more than expected at the citadel – what was necessary for him and his family to survive as Euron ravaged the city. There hadn’t been time for them to discuss it further, and even now seemed an inappropriate moment, after Sam had seen what became of his home and his mother and sisters. Griff resisted the urge to simply ask, _are you a bloody warlock?_ Instead, he asked Sam to sit and Duck poured the man some wine.

“Samwell,” Griff said. “I know I’ve said a version of this before, but words cannot express how much I regret what happened here. I am so grateful for your loyalty, and your bravery, that I can’t imagine what I can possibly do to fully right the wrongs I’ve done. You have done so much for me and my men…and I’ve done nothing but hurt you…”

“Your grace…” Sam began.

“No please, let me say this. I’ve treated you poorly. I’ve accused you of conspiracy, belittled your knowledge of the blood-drinking sickness, and now it seems I’ve caused the destruction of the home that cradled you. I want you to know, that whatever you ask of me, no matter what it is, I will grant if I can.”

Sam paused for a moment to sigh quietly before responding. “This place never cradled me, your grace,” he said to Griff’s surprise. “The truth is, it never felt like a home. Not the way a home should be. My father, he gave me a choice the day I became a man grown. _Go to the Wall_ , he said, _or on the morrow you will die in an unfortunate hunting mishap._ I knew he meant it, so I went to the Wall, where surely my father hoped I would die.”

Griff didn’t know what to say. He looked at Connington, and again felt the sense of his good fortune in having that man as a father. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“You showed the old man, then, didn’t you?” Duck said. “Survived the Wall surely enough.”

“I survived because of Jon Snow, Ser Duck. The brothers of the Night’s Watch don’t take kindly to cowards, and that’s what I was – a coward, and hugely fat, about five stone heavier than I am now. That was why my father hated me. But Jon Snow defended me.[1] Without Jon, I wouldn’t be alive today. He protected me, and in the end, raised me up to do what I was capable. He sent me to become a maester, and ordered me never to call myself a craven again. The last thing he said to me was _I can’t command you to be brave, but I can command you to hide your fears_. I took my vows in front of the Old Gods because Jon kept them, and now they have saved your life.”[2]

“You want to serve Jon Snow,” Griff said. “Is that it?”

Sam shook his head. “I want to help him, and I think you should too. I would ask you to ride north as soon as it’s possible, and lend what you can to defeating the Others.”

Sam explained that he had learned more than the healing arts at the Citadel. When the horror took hold of the city, the archmaesters had fallen into a strange madness one by one, unable to do their duties. Sam had taken advantage of their condition to raid the secret sections and locked vaults of the great Library, in hopes of finding something, anything that might help in the war against the Others. With the help of another novice named Pate, he had managed to heal Connington among other patients using methods either banned by the order or hidden behind padlocked bars. He found much in those hidden tomes that might be used in the war against Euron as well. Only magic could defeat magic, and the magic of the Old Gods was some of the most powerful of all in the West.

“Knowledge of the Old Gods and their magic has been suppressed for centuries by the order, in service of preserving the Faith among the people and keeping them under control,” Sam explained. “I think they were afraid of the smallfolk having access to the Old Gods’ magic. The Children of the Forest were driven out, and all that remains of their wisdom has been moldering in those vaults since then. Pretty soon it all became a myth – a story used to frighten children. Would that it were…”

“Have you these volumes still?” Connington asked.

“Some, my lord. What we could carry…but it was just Gilly and me, and we could only carry so many…but I remember a great deal.” He knelt then, and looked directly at Griff. “Your grace, what I want is the opportunity to learn more and to practice, that I might find a way to rid this world of the Crow’s Eye and the Others. This edict of Queen Myrcella’s is meant to prevent people like myself from gathering – from joining the likes of the Red Brotherhood and others to fight. Maybe Myrcella doesn’t know that’s what it is, but I promise that Euron knows it well.”

Griff nodded. He could see that this was no lie, no script written by Lord Bran, and Sam clearly wasn’t mad. Perhaps he had been too hasty in firing Frank from his Kingsguard for heresy as well. He looked at Connington, then at Duck.

“All right then. I will fight in the north against this threat, however I can. I will also declare openly to defend heretic…to defend followers of the Old Gods and Rh’llor from the crown’s edict,” he said.

“And from these faith militants…the First Order or whatever they call themselves,” Duck added. “If you do so, you allow Queen Sansa to focus on the Stony Shore, and Jon Snow on the Wall.”

“But first you need Oldtown, sire,” Sam said. “I can’t do as much good to you or to Jon without what’s left there. We need those books, and the artifacts stored there as well – and we need Lord and Lady Hightower.”

That night Griff felt the longing and homesickness for Arianne more than ever – perhaps the maze was still affecting him. Regret made his supper turn in his stomach, and he could not keep from reliving his mistakes over and over again in his mind. They studied a map of the Reach in Connington’s bedchamber late into the night, but when they had made their plans, Griff hesitated to retire to his own quarters. He didn’t want to be alone, and said as much as he attempted to curl up on the fainting couch that sat near the hearth.

“Then take the bed, my prince – I implore you,” Connington insisted. “I’ll sleep on the bloody couch.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it isn’t. Come then, sire.”

Connington tugged gently at Griff’s shoulder, encouraging him to sit up, and walking him to the bed, where he tucked him in as he had so many times when the prince was a boy. Griff thought he would never sleep, but exhaustion took over him, and soon the dark as well.

Chapter 5: Stannis

Daenerys met Stannis in the massive courtyard wearing her own armor of polished steel and black mail, her helm tucked under one arm. Before they arrived, Davos told Stannis of an incident that occurred earlier, as Jhiqui the housekeeper had been showing him where to find sundries in the manse.

“Her ladyship Jhiqui stopped at a door, opening it just so to offer the occupants wine or tea,” Davos said. “I peeked in just for a brief moment and saw two little handmaids, painting each other’s faces and giggling like children. One was the dressmaker, I saw, but the other I did not recognize. She was a puny thing, with silver hair like a rat’s nest upon her head, wearing a silken tunic and none else. It only occurred to me at our previous supper that I had seen the queen herself.”

“And so?” Stannis asked.

“So I think there’s more bluebird than dragon about the little queen.”

Stannis could see Davos was attempting to quench his nervousness at this meeting, and seeing the queen without her face paint and raiment, the silver rat’s nest braided neatly behind her ears, he thought it may well have worked.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, my lord…Ser Davos. It was important that I speak with you in private,” Daenerys said.

“Of course, your grace. I hope there is naught ill afoot,” Stannis said, trying to picture the scene Davos had described. Indeed, the queen looked quite the girl with a clean face, and she stood barely taller than his daughter.

“Perhaps you could tell me.”

“Your grace?”

“Lord Stannis, you know very well that I have already pledged to fight the army of the dead – no sooner and no later than I am able.”

“Your grace would be most wise and courageous in fulfilling your duty to the people of Westeros – that’s so.”

“Yet many of those people bent the knee to you – would still do so if you asked it of them, would they not?”

“If I asked it, perhaps. But as long as the rightful heir lives, I haven’t the right.”

“Indeed, you boast some Targaryen blood I’m told. Perhaps you believed that gave Robert some right to take the throne.”  
“I suppose so, yes. But that right has been superseded.”

“Still.” The queen eyed him with a look then that was less than girlish. “I need to know what you are really doing here Stannis – what you really want. Because what you claim to want you know well you already have.”

Stannis paused to look at Davos, who had the annoying way of communicating _I might have told you_ with a glance. Stannis could see that equivocation would get him nowhere, and it had never been his strong suit after all. “I had to know the truth, your grace. The truth of the prophecy of which you’ve heard the red priests speak.”

“Of the prince who was promised. The return of Azor Ahai and Lightbringer?”

“That’s right. You said the words, as did I, but I need to know whether you believe them. Whether you believe the Lord of Light has chosen his hero.”

“I believe the Lord of Light is _imaginary_. Just like every other god…”

Daenerys had been pacing the perimeter of the courtyard, the shade from live oak and red frangipani dappling her features. She turned now and began to walk closer to where Stannis and Davos stood. “I was introduced to a number of prophecies during my time in the city of Qarth. One told me to beware the Lion, the Griffin, and the Kraken.”

“And yet you employ a lion, support a griffin, and are wed to a kraken,” Davos said. “My guess is her grace cares little for prophecy.”

Daenerys smiled, and the purple of her eyes seemed to shine. “No onions in those warnings,” she said and winked at Davos, who blushed like a maid. “But of a blue-eyed king I was warned as well.”

“You keep your enemies close, is that it, your grace?” Stannis asked.

“My enemies have kept themselves close. So many men have tried to kill me, I can scarcely keep track of their names. I have been sold like a broodmare. I’ve been chained and betrayed, raped and mutilated. Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile? Still keeps me standing after every loss, every defeat? Faith. Not in gods. Not in legends and prophecies. In myself – in Daenerys Targaryen.”[3]

She stood face to face with Stannis now, looking up at him with a wide, hard stare. “Do you have faith in yourself, Stannis of House Baratheon?”

Stannis’s tongue felt very dry suddenly, but he managed to say, “Yes.”

“Show me.”

They walked out of the courtyard gates to an open garden that looked out over a steep cliff. There stood two dragons: the might black beast, and the cream and gold who Stannis had seen more than once circling the skies above the manse with his green brother. The cream and gold dragon had strapped upon his back a huge saddle. Daenerys approached him and placed a gloved hand upon his scaly nose.

“This is Viserion – the most amiable and compliant of my children. The saddle you see was made to your specifications, Lord Stannis.”

Stannis swallowed, unable to think of what to say. Davos’s mouth hung open in amazement, but he smiled like a fool when Stannis caught his eye. “You mean for me to ride this dragon?” Stannis asked, trying to conceal his apprehension.

“The blood of the dragon flows but little in your veins, however, I am not enough to control my dragons in a war as important as the one we soon face. I need a commander who can ride a dragon with me – at least one.”

“What of the third? The green beast?”

“The saddle that could hold a rider on Rhaegal’s back has not been imagined much less stitched. When and if it is, I hope my nephew may grasp its reins.”

“But you believe I can take the reins upon this one?” Stannis walked near to Viserion, feeling the heat of the dragon’s belly through his armor.

“I believe you can and will try this very moment. Hopefully, given your ancestry, Viserion takes to your command.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then it’s been a pleasure knowing you, Stannis Baratheon.”

She stepped upon the black dragon’s back using his wing and spines as a kind of ladder. Stannis attempted the same upon Viserion, and found with some shuffling and huffing, he was able to seat himself without incident. With trepidation, Stannis made note of the vast difference between riding this monster and riding a horse.

“Be sure to strap on your helm,” Daenerys said as she placed her own upon her head.

“I’m fearful of how it might affect my vision.”

“Suit yourself.”

Stannis looked back at Davos, who looked pale indeed. He gave the wave of a man who thought he wouldn’t see his lord again in this lifetime. In a moment, the dragon took three great strides beneath Stannis and dove off the cliff, spreading his enormous wings and falling into a glide. Stannis felt the saddle come away from his legs momentarily, but he clutched hard at the reins and grasped the saddle’s horn for dear life. Soon, they were soaring through clouds, the mist dampening his armor and gathering in the hairs in his nose. His helm soon flew off, but Stannis remained in the saddle as they flew in circles over tall trees and mighty mountains. _Horses shall be forever ruined for me,_ he thought madly. [4] Soon he had control of his position on the dragon, and could even feel the beast responding to his body as he attempted to use the reins to direct him in following the queen on her mount. In spite of himself, Stannis felt something like laughter in his body, filling him with an exhilaration he never knew existed, and soon he was laughing aloud, like a fool, like a madman, like a child at play.

Chapter 6: The Snow King

The roaring of the fires covered up the soft whine that came from down in Jon’s chest, but it could do nothing to stop the tears that flowed due not only to the smoke. The ache he now felt was not unlike he felt when he learned of his brothers’ deaths, or when he lay his head on Grenn’s giant dead chest. Not so different even, from what he felt when Ygritte had died in his arms, he realized. His heart was making a wrenching sound, and now that he and his wolf were one, he could hear it loud and clear. It made that sound because Matthar and Devyn had died, fighting for him. His mind flooded with memories of Matt when they were brothers at the Wall, before Jon had been made Lord Commander – getting drunk, throwing snowballs. When Jon’s father died, Matt had asked the Septon to light a candle. [5] Devyn Sealskinner had seven children among Jon’s subjects, including Ren, his young squire, who was much younger than Jon had been when Ned Stark died.

Jon’s scouts had found out the Proud Men were much greater in number than they had thought – impossibly great in number. Not only had they killed Matt and Devyn along with other good men, they had wounded young Devan Seaworth quite badly and burned a good portion of the Karhold and the woods around it. After interrogating the prisoners they had taken, they learned the Proud Men were being bolstered by the crown, in the interest, supposedly, of a ludicrous reactionary religious movement. In the name of the Seven, they had decimated numerous of Jon’s fighters before finally losing advantage after Jon had summoned a number of mammoths from the forest, and a flock of eagles from the sky. The trees had given him the advantage, Jon knew, and he had prayed silent thanks to the Old Gods whose will he understood less and less.

Seeing what Jon could do, most who remained surrendered. and Jon sent them all in chains to Jaime Lannister’s command at the wall of fire, with the exception of Cregan Karstark and Nedd Umber, son of Mors. They were to be kept in the Karhold in the custody of Lord Harrion Karstark until a trial was performed, at which time, Jon would happily remove their heads. After the pyres burned down, they took the two prisoners inside. The stronghold was abandoned as the Last Hearth had been, and the gloominess left behind thickened Jon’s grief. Before they could escort Cregan and Nedd to the dungeons, however, Harrion received a raven meant for Jon. Jon recognized Pyp’s writing…he was one of few of his brothers who could read and write. When Satin saw Jon’s expression, he gently took the scroll and read it aloud to the men.

_My lord chieftain. Your lady wife has taken a battalion of Freefolk and marched west to the Barrowlands. It is said her intention is to take Torrhen’s Square. I regret to report that the wildling babe was with them, and your daughter as well. Requesting permission to go after them and retrieve Val and the children._

Before Satin could say _I’m sorry sire_ , Jon let out a piercing howl that doubled his body over. He knew how it unnerved the men when he did that, but it couldn’t be helped. Cregan Karstark, who stood chained to his partner in treason, made the mistake of commenting, “Gods be good the truth will out. This bastard is a beastling as well as a wildling and a warlock… follow an abomination into battle and you buy yourself a chamber in hell!”

Jon could still smell the smoke from his brothers’ burning bodies. For a brief moment, as Cregan spewed his venom, Jon thought about the dark skies that hung over the North and considered he might never see his wife and child again. A storm was coming – he had felt it as the battle raged and he felt it now. Before Cregan had finished speaking, Jon’s dagger was across his throat. He lay the blade into Nedd Umber’s throat for good measure, just as he was about to beg mercy. Next he snatched a cup still half-filled with ale from Edd Tollett’s hand and held it under Cregan’s chin as he bled out, gasping for breath. He caught the splashes of blood and then swirled the mixture briefly before drinking it down, looking directly in Cregan’s eyes as he did, while the traitor croaked out his last breaths.

It was too late to ride out with the storm already blowing in. Satin was tasked with recruiting camp followers to help with taking down the camp and moving everything into the Karhold as quickly as possible. Satin had a way with these women. He got them to come help knock snow and pine needles off the tarps by suggesting, _we’ve got something for you to beat off,_ just as he got them to wash dishes by asking, _who’s ready to get their lovely little hands wet?_ The Karhold came to life for the first time in many weeks, but there was a silence hanging around Jon after what he had done to the prisoners. Harrion Karstark was quick to forgive, and even allowed Ghost to make a meal of Cregan’s entrails before they burned the rest of him. However, what Ghost ate, Jon ate. Through his wolf, Jon had tasted the flesh of his enemies more than once, and did that not mean he was no better than the cannibals of Skagos? Jon felt the depths of his own depravity, his own savagery increasing. He felt himself diving into those depths with evil abandon, even as he consulted his men on what to do.

“The Ironborn abandoned the Square not long after Euron’s creatures hit the Stony Shore,” Robbett Glover explained. “No clue where Cleftjaw and his people sailed off to, whether it was back to Pyke or elsewhere. The _Foamdrinker_ ’s long gone anyway, and you made short work of Euron’s hold there so far, sire.”

“Between the mountains and the barrows, the storm might go softer to the west, ey, boss?” Edd Tollett added.

“You can be sure of at least one thing, boss,” Iron Emmett said to Jon. “You’ll know now who among the Freefolk you can trust and who you cannot.”

“I cannot wait long to find that out…I must ride out now,” Jon said, shaking his head, for he knew it was folly even as he said it. The snow was blinding and the temperature made it certain that no man would make it a mile alive. They could be snowed in at the castle for days, and his wife and baby were in it.

“Take comfort, King,” Longspear Ryk said. He and Leathers were among the few Freefolk warriors Jon had taken with him. “Val is of the Freefolk, and our people have marched through storms worse than this.”

“Then I can march out, too.”

“No, King. You are not of the Freefolk, remember? Your wolf and your bird know how to survive this…by holing up and waiting it out.”

The storm raged for a day and a night, during which time Jon spend a lot of time with Devan, who improved once his fever broke. Jon noted that the wound to Devan’s thigh was not unlike the one he had suffered beyond the Wall. He was cheered somewhat by Devan’s recovery. Had Devan not made it, Jon wasn’t sure what he’d be capable of. He sometimes felt his control over himself slipping further and further from his grasp. Tormund Giantsbane had often asked him to discuss how living in the body of his wolf for so much time after the murder had changed him, but Jon was reluctant to talk much about it. However, the further north he went, the more he felt the animal taking over, and the human being falling into darkness.

The snow halted and the temperature rose within two days, but the snow that had fallen blocked every road and was so high that it would be impossible to ride without tunneling through it. The only way to even attempt it would be on mammoths, who could pummel their way through snowfall up to five feet. Jon could not sit idle while the fate of his new family was in peril, however, and he proposed to travel out with only a mammoth and Ghost. He would go alone, he announced at first, but the men convinced him that was inconceivable.

“You are our chieftain…our king,” Satin said. “If you think you’re going to wander out there without any of us, then the ale you’ve been drinking is having a queer effect.”

“You try it, King,” Leathers said. “And we’ll just follow after ya. So you may as well choose at least three to go with you.”

So they set out: Jon, Satin, Leathers and Ryk along with two mammoths instead of one, and Ghost. King the giant raven followed them, though he mainly flew above, as if scouting. The cold was still bitter as hell, and the going was slow. Riding on a mammoth created a sensation of sickness after a long time, especially when the whole world was completely white, and there was little to nothing on which to focus one’s eyes. They rode for hours and likely made less than a third of the headway they might have made if on horseback at speed. When Ghost wandered off to hunt, they stopped to eat a few strips of dried venison and hard cheese, but then kept going. Ryk sang a few songs to keep their moods up, but they spoke little. Leathers explained how mothers among the Freefolk kept their babes warm and alive as they moved from place to place, often in foul weather. They used cradleboards strapped upon their backs to carry the infants, with backs made of polished wood. The cradle part was usually otter and beaver pelts laced with buckskin and lined with moss, cattail fluff and shredded bark. The top was sewn right up over the baby’s head to protect it like a hood, and sometimes little knick-knacks were dangled over that part to amuse the child on its travels. Leathers didn’t say how such infants fared when the tribes came upon their enemies, however. Jon could only hope that Val and those accompanying her avoided skirmishes, either with Euron’s lingering foot soldiers, or remaining Northerners who would love nothing more to kill Wildlings.

As the dark neared, they had to build an igloo shelter, and as they worked, the snow again began to fall – great swirling masses of heavy white flakes such that they could not manage to build one large shelter fast enough. Soon Satin and Jon lost sight of Ryk and Leathers, though Jon could hear they were all right. Ryk said something about getting cozy – that they might have to hold each other like lovers to stay warm. Leathers muttered something about keeping _that long spear_ under control. When Leathers expressed a passing concern about Jon and Satin, Ryk said only, _gods don’t die, do they?_ Leathers answered, _I suppose not…anyway he’s got Satin and if he don’t know how to keep a man warm…_ The two of them had a good laugh at that.

Satin hadn’t talked much about his past in Oldtown, mainly because Jon avoided the subject. He imagined his life had been wretched, but that was because it would have been wretched for _him_. Did he service men as well as women? Jon assumed so, though he didn’t know what that meant. Now however, it was clear that Ryk was right. To stay alive, he and Satin would have to share a pile of skins, and probably cling as close to one another as possible throughout the night. Jon had shared a bed with Satin before, but had never been obliged to touch him. _He’s my brother, like the rest of them,_ Jon thought. _There’s naught to get hung up over._ He remembered, somewhat fondly even, when in the last winter he’d known, he’d slept snuggled close with his brothers in the same bed. He usually ended up with his arms wrapped around Bran, who was practically a baby then, and tended toward nuzzling close with Jon rather than Robb. However, he also remembered one night in particular, when he had chanced to look over at Robb and Theon, bundled together next to him. He saw something that at the time he didn’t understand – some movements they were making that weren’t the usual sleeping movements. He knew not what they were about in that moment – only that he wasn’t supposed to see it.

Now as he and Satin wriggled under the furs together, he felt that same warmth and intimacy he had felt with his baby brother, and with it the same comfort. He imagined Satin was Bran, and pulled him very close, so that their legs were tangled and Satin’s face was in his neck. Satin was in fact younger than he, as he had confessed not long ago. When he’d come to the Wall, he’d claimed to be eighteen, and at the time Jon thought he looked younger. In fact, Satin told him, he was told by his mother, not long before she died, to tell anyone who asked that he was eighteen. _Something about some patrons with ill looks who were looking for younger boys_ , Satin had said. In fact, he had been only fifteen. He had always acted and thought as a much older man, and Jon considered life as a whore might have aged him mentally if not physically.

Jon could smell the winter rose oil in his hair – somehow Satin always managed to carry something like that with him. Smells like that made Jon think about women, though, and his body tended now to respond to such thoughts quite out of his control. He became conscious of where his member lay in relation to Satin’s and began to squirm. Squirming only made the issue more prominent, and clearly Satin would become aware of what was happening before he fell asleep. Sure enough, Satin inched away a bit and asked whether Jon was all right.

“I’m fine,” Jon said, which Satin would of course know was a lie, even without the conspicuous erection between them. Jon’s mood gave away the dread enshrouding him – the feeling that drinking Cregan’s blood had both cursed him and made stronger.

“Uncomfortable, is it not, sire?”

“I said I’m fine.”

“If you like I can help. I mean I can…you know…” Satin made the head nod that meant he was implying something that was better not to say aloud.

“What – no! Satin, no…”

“It’s no bother at all, boss. It may help you sleep.”

“No. That isn’t…that’s not something you have to do anymore. You never have to do anything like that again.”

“Even if it could help us, because I can tell you there are times when it might. When it has…at the Horn we…”

“ _No, I said_. You don’t have to degrade yourself and you don’t have to tell me or anyone else about those things.”

“Sire, I have nothing to hide and I am not ashamed of anything I have ever done.[6] What you call degrading myself I call a skill – a skill that can be useful.”

Jon suddenly understood. He remembered thinking that when Sam Tarly admitted to being a coward, Jon had initially thought that strangely brave, and yet it began to annoy him because it started to seem like an excuse. _Don’t make me go on this ranging, I’m a coward. Leave me out of this battle, I’m a coward._ Satin admitting he was good at what he did wasn’t the same. It wasn’t Satin’s shame Jon was afraid of – only his own.

“I’m sorry, Sat. It wasn’t meant to judge you, or your past. The job of my henchman must involve some things and not others, that’s all,” he said.

“Shame, boss, is a useless emotion. It does nothing to make us better ourselves. It only drags us down further,” said Satin.

Jon nodded. Satin was right. He pulled the furs up over both of them and pulled Satin against him. Soon, despite the freezing cold that surrounded them, he slept better than he had in months.

The four of them arrived at the Dreadfort three days later, as the temperatures had risen slightly and the snow began to recede. The crests of half-melted snow crusted with ice gave the castle and even darker, eerier mien, like the gate to a frozen hell. It was nightfall, but Pyp and Munda had made ready for their arrival and were waiting. The first thing Jon did was make note of those Freefolk who remained behind, now offering to range out with him and find his family: Tormund, Toregg, Morna – all those who he had known all along would never betray him. Then he was presented with a letter from Sansa:

_Dear brother,_

_You will want to know that your daughter has been delivered to Winterfell by your giant Wun-Wun, along with the little Wildling boy and the woman Osha. She is in the hands of the wet nurse and perfectly safe, as she will always be as long as she is in this castle. What a darling beautiful little snowberry! A perfect baby. My ladies are all besotted with her._

_It seems, too, that we have a giant now._

_Why oh why is it that you and I must suffer from those we love wandering off? Harrold has left as you know, and now Lord Baelish has gone missing and we fear the worst._

_Oh Jon won’t you please come home to stay? The smallfolk miss your smile and your good works as do I. Isn’t it clear that you cannot rely on the Freefolk to obey, as much as they love you? I am grateful for what they did for us, but this action is unconscionable on Val’s part don’t you agree? Come home, and I will put you in full command of all my armies: the Rivermen, the Knights of the Vale, and the Northmen. I promise you will not be sorry, and your little snowberry will be much safer and in good hands._

_Yours truly,_

_Sansa, Queen of the Riverlands, the Vale, the Rock, and the North._

Jon was too relieved and elated to feel the import of Sansa’s generous offer to force him to fight for her. His daughter was alive and safe, and Val had done the right thing to protect her. He realized only now how angry he had been at her, for he had been so focused on his own errors. He also realized how exhausted he was after the journey, and decided to sleep before making any decisions. The Dreadfort had been cleared of almost all furniture including beds once the smallfolk got wind that the Boltons were dead. Jon had a simple cot made for him and Val to sleep on, and Val despised it. Now however, it sounded comfortable indeed.

In his chambers Jon found little Ren Sealskinner, asleep on the floor atop a pile of furs beneath Jon’s cot, and he remembered Devyn with tears filling his eyes. Quietly, Jon lifted the boy from the floor and laid him upon the cot. Ren snuffled a bit but did not wake as Jon covered him with furs, tucking them beneath the boy’s chin. Then he lay down on the floor where the stone was warm from his squire’s body, and pulled a skin over his own head.

[1] Martin, George R.R. _A Game of Thrones_ , Chapter 26, Jon IV.

[2] Martin, George R. R. _A Feast For Crows,_ Chapter 5, Samwell I.

[3] Benioff & Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 3: “The Queen’s Justice,” HBO, 2017.

[4] Benioff & Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 8, Episode 1: “Winterfell,” HBO, 2019.

[5] Martin, _A Game of Thrones_ , Chapter 52, Jon VII.

[6] Eastwood, Clint. _Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil_ , Warner Bros., 1997.

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing in a limited POV style like Martin's, which is a suffocating way to write. I have thought of a lot of neat scenes that don't fit into the POV limits I set for myself, or don't move the story along quickly enough to include in the series. I will write these out if someone requests it. If you like this story, and would like to see a scene that got skipped or glossed over, OR that is in the POV of someone who is not a Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon, Greyjoy, or Lannister, let me know what you'd like to see, and I will make a Wheel of Westeros B-side out of it.


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